


“the bust of passione and vérité”:  a Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer Story

by HegelianChalamet



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Art, Culture, Italy, M/M, New York City, Professors, Protective Michelangelo (TMNT), hypebeast, sneakers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21705385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HegelianChalamet/pseuds/HegelianChalamet
Summary: Timothée Chalamet, a PhD student studying art history at Columbia, is in Italy doing research for his dissertation on Italian sculpture. Armie Hammer, a lecturer from the University of Pennsylvania, is also in Italy to lead a study abroad program. Over their shared love of art, Timothée and Armie develop a non-sexual attraction to each other that lasts a lifetime...
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. A Gallery Encounter

He stood there with darkened emerald eyes of pain and realization as he stared at the important, significant statue, or perhaps it was a sculpture, a term he had learned in class as a PhD student at the University of Columbia, New York, made by the famous Italian artist Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, also known by how his name was taught in schools, Michelangelo: a name that was sexy, forward, and provided a touchstone for people to recognize the artist. 

“Simply divine...”, he, Timothée Chalamet, muttered to himself, thinking about his field of study, art history and mythology. Timothée paused his thinking to reflect on his achievements in life so far. Actor, academic genius, and brilliant heartthrob, all words to describe him so far in his twenty-three years on “Planet” Earth. He jostled his hair a little bit to bring him back to reality and focus on the sculpture and the notepad in his hand. He pulled a Staedler pencil from his ear and put it to the notepad, before hesitating for a moment. Strong, buff footsteps were coming from the northeast entrance of the gallery room of the Galleria dell’Accademia that he was standing in. 

Turning his eyes towards the entrance, Timothée saw a hulk of a man walk in. Using his knowledge of archaeology and art, he approximated the man’s height to be roughly sixty-seven inches tall. He was wearing a sky blue Oxford shirt a size too big for him that was French-tucked into his impeccably clean beige chino shorts, sitting just above his knees. The shorts were cinched by what was very clearly a hand-woven Italian leather rope belt, perhaps by an artisan craftsman descended from the brilliant Michelangelo himself. 

“My God... What an incredible sculpture... This must be the famous Adam that my students have told me about”, the man with incredible energy and a nice outfit said out loud, almost as if he was conscious of Timothée’s presence in the room but wanted to play it off cool. Timothée wondered if this man was subtly flexing that he had students, something which resonated in his own mentality as he someday hoped to become a professor, bringing intellectualism to the masses in a dialectic echoing the movement of Hegelian Revivalism, perhaps even with tinges of Wittgenstein. Timothée stared at his Nike x Off-White Air Jordan 1’s, the UNC Carolina Blue-inspired versions, that were on his size eight feet, thinking about what to do next...


	2. Life Imitates Art

The man was named Armie Hammer, yes, like the tool and/or weapon, depending on who you ask, perhaps the latter if you ask someone who reads a lot of fantasy. Timothée did not know this yet, but he soon would, as the story would chance to unfold into something magical even fantastical, but grounded in possibility, vaguely drawing on the Borgeian notion of magical realism in a loose sense. 

Timothée male-gazed at the man in a non-threatening and/or non-problematic way, one that simply appreciated his inspiring physique and great outfit, as established before. “My God...”, a phrase that he didn’t realize echoed the witnessed object of his emerald eyes, “I find myself suddenly intrigued. What is this man’s story? What is his narrative? He must be a man of art, I wonder what his favorite European sculptor or painter is?” As he pondered these questions, his fingers that belonged to his left hand, one that had a Coachella 4-Day bracelet on it in years prior, when Timothée was more reckless, wild, and free, a time that he sometimes craved while he was cooped up in the library, wild-haired head buried in difficult books about art and art-adjacent subjects, like philosophy, dropped the Staedler pencil that he was carrying in that hand. “F**k!” he yelled, startled by his own clumsiness, which to him was kind of cute and attractive if he saw that in a potential partner, but was nothing but shameful for him in his current experience of it because he thought that it would make him look like a coward and a fool, two things which he definitely was not, but he thought that maybe his parents would be, as they doubted his ability to excel in the academic field of art because he came from a background of pure theater, the same background he was able to extrapolate to the world of art because of his novel combination of book smarts and street smarts, not dissimilar from the dialogues opened by Brecht in his groundbreaking conceptions of theatrical performance in the twentieth century. 

The man heard this primordial curse, an utterance that came from the most true part of Timothée’s soul, something evidenced because of the gaping look in his face upon hearing this noise. The man walked over. “I think you dropped this” he said, smiling at Timothée, picking up the pencil and handing it to him. 

Timothée was staring at the man the whole time. 

“You going to say anything haha?” the man jovially asked. “You might need your Staedler pencil for sketching if you’re an aspiring artist, or if you are an aspiring intellectual, taking notes, on this seminal work of artistic sculpture by Michelangelo. Apologies if you are already one of those two and are not aspiring, I get nervous around the potentiality of intellect and cultural engagement. But what can I say, I’m a sapiosexual academic.” The man laughed nervously, almost as if he had given up too much about himself but wanted to do so in order to give a little information about himself. 

“Oh yeah, thanks for picking up my pencil. Uh, the one I use to write with. Oh! I’m Timothée by the way. I’m a student from Columbia University of New York. In the United States. I’m here for some research about art, because that’s what I study as a PhD student in a degree I started a few years ago as the youngest in my department because I’m a bit of a savant in my field”. Timothée paused. “Did I say too much? Sorry, I’m not like other people. I’m a little weird.” 

Armie looked at Timothée, whose name he now thankfully knew, marking this encounter a moment of mutual recognition that sparked in his mind the Michelangelo fresco painting titled “The Creation of Adam,” but he wasn’t sure whether he was Adam or God or whether Timothée was Adam or God, as they felt so close to each other right now in an intellectual way, almost as if they could call each other by the other’s name without much consequence. Slowly, he began to spill out words. “Don’t worry about it. What do you think of this sculpture?”


End file.
